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‘I’m sure there are others.’
‘I can’t believe you want to postpone our party.’
‘I don’t want to, Stephen. Ihaveto. This is about a family I didn’t know I had. And it’s important to me.’
‘Weare your family, Emmie. Not some old crone who never even bothered to meet you.’
‘I’m sorry, Stephen, but it would be wrong not to go.’
‘Mum won’t be happy.’
‘She’ll get over it.’
He harrumphs as the typing once again resumes. ‘So we’re good?’
A long-drawn-out sigh. ‘I’ll talk to her. But she won’t like it.’
Too bad. ‘Thank you, Stephen. And another thing before I forget. I want to pop down there next weekend to meet my grandmother, just so we’re not complete strangers at the funeral. How are you set next weekend?’
The tapping suddenly stops again. ‘Set?’
‘Yes, uhm, I mean, don’t you want to come? With me?’
The tapping resumes, almost viciously now. ‘Ah, Emmie, I wish I could, but I’m absolutely swamped with work.’
‘I know. We work at the same school, remember?’
‘Please don’t start all that again, Emmie…’
‘I’m not starting anything. But it’s true that I need an appointment to see my own fiancé.’
‘That’s not true. In any case, it would be best if you went on your own. Meet this woman and find out why she never knew you from Eve. The cheek of her, expecting you just to abandon your life and rush to her side.’
If only Stephen weren’t such a die-hard cynic about everything, including feelings. I can’t even remember the last time he said something sweet to me or made a romantic gesture. While I’m always trying to create scenes and scenarios that’ll get him in a romantic mood, he always finds a way out of it. And he does it so naturally, too, like a marathon runner avoiding all the potholes on a track.
He isn’t someone who ever completely succumbs to instinct. At first I used to think that was because he was in total control of himself, but soon I began to realise that if anything, his mother controls him.
As he’s determined not to join me on my Cornish blitz, I wonder if he’s also set on not coming to the funeral either. I don’t like the turn this conversation is taking.
‘Can we change the subject or could you please at least change your tone?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with my tone. Don’t be so thin-skinned all the time. And speaking of, Mum is now going to have to change the spa appointment she booked you both in for. She wants you to be perfect for our engagement party.’
‘You meanherengagement party. I don’t know half the people she’s invited. Why can’t we just invite our own friends?’
‘They are my friends. I grew up with them.’
‘They’re not your friends, Stephen. When you broke your leg last year, the only people swarming through your door were the vultures wanting to become Mrs Stephen Stone.’
A long, protracted sigh. I wonder if it’s the unborn germ of an acknowledgment that I may be right. Probably not.
‘These are business relationships that my family has been building for decades,’ he argues. ‘I can’t help it if she has an empire to uphold. We can’t just ignore them on our engagement day.’
I want to point out that it is indeed ours, not hers. But with Stephen, I’ve often found that the less we speak of his mum, the better.
‘Tell you what,’ he says. ‘If you go down there and meet your grandmother, she might be more inclined to postpone the service.’
My spirits sink somewhat at the prospect of having to go all the way down there on my own.
